


Five Times Dan Took Something From Jean-Éric By Accident, Intention or Neither One of Those

by malevolosidade



Series: Barbagallo [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Five Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malevolosidade/pseuds/malevolosidade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title's pretty self-explanatory, really. (Rock band AU!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Dan Took Something From Jean-Éric By Accident, Intention or Neither One of Those

**Author's Note:**

> I know, the title could use a little work but... yeah.
> 
> It's time to revisit the Dan-and-JEV-as-a-rock-band AU again, huzzah! :D It's not very Christmassy (okay, let's be honest, it's not Christmassy at all) and I've never written this kind of fic before, so hopefully I have not screwed around the format too much, hehe. I've got a couple more ideas for fics in this style and in this 'verse for next year so let's see how that pans out. :)
> 
> Many thanks to the lovely Zera Parker for her helpful-as-usual comments, and also to everyone who gave suggestions and held my hand while I wrote, you know who you are. :) Needless to say, this is a work of fiction and none of this has ever happened.
> 
> Hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it, and Happy Holidays as well while we're at it! ;)

_0._

(The Joy Division T-shirt doesn’t really count.

Come to think of it, it was never Jean-Éric’s in the first place, even if he was the one who paid for it at a flea market in Islington the second time they had been to the UK. The fact it somehow ended, suspiciously so, mixed with Dan’s shopping even before they had left the tent should have been, in retrospect, a sign he and the shirt were never meant to be.)

 

_1._

Because the early days of the band are a whirlwind of activity, Jean-Éric ends up spending more time at Dan’s small apartment than at the bedroom-and-kitchen cubicle he’s rented after quitting UWA; because he quickly grows tired of carrying his stuff around every day, he decides, with Dan’s enthusiastic agreement, to leave some bare necessities at the spare bedroom so he doesn’t have to go back and forth across Perth just for a clean shirt or a pack of strings. So he leaves a change of clothes or three, his guitar and its gear, the array of pedals and cables neatly stashed in boxes and properly identified with stickers, some leftover books he hasn’t sold to the freshmen yet, his sketches for the flyers for next month’s festival in Sydney, that sort of stuff. He’s apologetic for the invasion but Dan just rolls his eyes and opens the closets and the drawers, and that’s the end of it.

He leaves all of that and a toothbrush in the bathroom, because there are _limits_ and he’s not sharing _that_.

They settle into this new routine and it’s easy, a lot easier than Jean-Éric expected it to be; it all goes well, it all goes without a hitch and there’s even no reason to complain at all until one morning he gets up and Dan is brushing his teeth with his toothbrush.

Jean-Éric even blinks once or twice to make sure it’s not sleep making him see things.

“Good morning!” Dan stretches the vowels on the words in his careless singing, glancing at the reflection of the figure standing at the bathroom door, toothpaste foam smeared all over his grinning lips, fingers tight around the white-and-green toothbrush as he leans the heel of his hand on the edge of the basin. He doesn’t even give a fuck that his face is a mess, Jean-Éric’s already enough part of the household for him to be comfortable with his presence even in that state. “How are we doing today?”

Dan’s toothbrush was, the last time he checked, white and blue.

“Whas’ whrong?” Dan mumbles around, brow furrowed, the toothbrush stuck back in his mouth. He brushes his teeth once or twice more in broad strokes before spitting out and opening the tap to wash his mouth. “I know it was a rough night, what’s with all the killer guitar riffs and the rowdy crowd and the late night dining with the girls from the opening act, but you look like you’re about to keel over or something, mate.”

Jean-Éric is actually pondering whether yelling profanities at Dan is the best option.

“Seriously, I’m starting to get worried. You’re growing paler by the moment!”

Dan is blissfully oblivious of what is going on up to the moment he’s done cleaning the toothbrush under the running water and the cabinet’s door flies open with a sweeping motion of his hand. Jean-Éric momentarily disappears from his view and thus he doesn’t get to see that his bandmate is in the very least _quite_ satisfied to see the grin dropping off his face the moment his eyes land on the spot their toothbrushes usually hang from.

“Uh, JEV, I-”

 _Fair enough_ , Jean-Éric tells himself, deciding against pickinghmight so early in the morning and for such a stupid reason, _they’re the same brand of .hbrushes, they’re only different in color, it’s the sort of thing that just happens, it’s an honest mistake, really_.

“Just keep it, Dan.” Jean-Éric sighs, resigned. “It’s fine. I’ll get another one. A _different_ one.”

“Um, okay, then,” Dan looks relieved, far too relieved to Jean-Éric’s taste, one of his usual wide smiles creeping to his lips as he starts digging around one of the drawers for the shaving cream. “’Cause in retrospect, I think I might have been using it for, uh…”

Jean-Éric’s eyes narrow.

“ _How long?_ ”

“Jeez, chill out, JEV. It’s not like I never washed it after use, or like I’ve been using it to scrub the toilet before returning it to the cabinet-” Jean-Éric is still glaring at him, unmoved at the crack, and Dan can’t quite believe Jean-Éric’s getting worked up because of a toothbrush of all things; he wants to laugh, but deep down he knows that’s exactly the sort of thing that sets him off, and just tries his best to keep a mostly serious façade. “Fine, a week or so, give or take a few days. Muscle memory, man, it’s a damned thing. My toothbrush used to be on the left, now it’s on the right, nothing’s the same and _everything’s changed_.”

Try as he might, however, there is still amusement in his voice and Jean-Éric shakes his head.

“Wow, I can’t even imagine how you got used to _such_ an abrupt change.”

Dan loses it right at Jean-Éric’s pointed sarcasm, unable to hold his laughter inside any longer.

“It’s been easy, really, I got used to it by using your toothbrush instead!” He pauses for a moment, suddenly, _seriously_ deep in thought before resuming his point; Jean-Éric would eventually learn those momentary silences always preceded some sort of preposterous suggestion. This was still early on, however, and he didn’t know any better, he still paid attention. “Although I guess now that I’ve used your toothbrush it’s only fair that you use mine in exchange and-- Where are you going?”

That’s when Jean-Éric just gives up, turning around and throwing his hands up in the air in defeat while the sound of Dan’s renewed laughter rings in his ears.

 

_2._

Jean-Éric is practical enough that he chooses to sell things he no longer has any use to; that way, he not only makes money that is poured almost entirely into the band but he also gets rid of any clutter he doesn’t need anymore. It’s win-win, really, the sort of transaction he’s grown so accustomed to the finer points of bargaining that he could do it with eyes closed, and for him it’s always been easy to let go of everything he doesn’t need at that exact moment or period of his life. He left a life in France behind because it no longer suited him; letting go of old pedals or a camcorder is barely a hassle. There is, however, one thing that he hasn’t sold, or at least has no intention of selling for the foreseeable future besides his clothes and his guitar.

It goes without saying that Dan has found a way to get his hands on it.

“It’s for my Stig costume.” He sums up, as if that was an acceptable explanation to the fact that the white helmet Jean-Éric was one hundred percent sure to be stashed in his own apartment in Perth had actually been smuggled across the globe for a festival taking place between October 31st and November 1st in Portland. Hence the need for costumes; hence the flagrant violation of his personal space. “It’s okay, you don’t have to make that face, I already got the overalls too. I had to improvise before we left home, since you were so kind as to shoot down the _awesome_ idea I had for our costumes.”

“Swapping clothes around doesn’t quite count as Halloween costuming, Dan.”

“But we wouldn’t be ourselves, which is the thing about Halloween!” Dan protests, his tone indignant, and Jean-Éric holds back the chuckle that rises in his throat. It does not surprise him in the least that Dan is, as a matter of fact, the one person in the world that would get a rise out of ideas for Halloween costumes going bust. “I’d be you and you’d be me, and I’d even put on a wig-”

Jean-Éric glares at him _again_ , because that idea hasn’t stopped being silly yet.

“Oh well, you’ve already made it clear you think it’s a terrible idea and I’ll never be able to convince you otherwise because you’re such a _no-fun square_ so I give up.” Jean-Éric rolls his eyes at the tongue Dan sticks out at his direction before continuing. Such a child, he thinks; he’ll never get used to it. “Then I had another idea, I thought about wearing the helmet on backwards, sticking an eye on it and being a Resident for Halloween, but that was not the best idea I’ve ever had, and since I already had the helmet I went with plan C, that is, the Stig. End of story.”

Jean-Éric sighs but finds himself oddly amused with the notion of Dan thinking – or _hoping_ – to make it through the night wearing a helmet backwards, and smiles nonetheless.

“I hope this doesn’t sound like I’m shooting down your idea for a costume again, even if half of it actually belongs to me and you didn’t ask for permission to use said half, but I’ve got to ask, how the hell are you planning to drum with a helmet on?”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult, I’ll just figure something out,” Dan says dismissively with a flick of the hand, “Buckethead does it, surely I can do it too.”

“Yeah, but the bucket is not taking up the whole of his head, you know.”

“Everything is going to work out, I promise,” Dan assures steadfastly, and decides it’s time for a change in the subject. “I have to say I was surprised you were still hanging on to the helmet, I thought you had gotten rid of it when I sold my motorbike.”

“Nah, I had- well, I _still_ have plans for it, I wanted to customize it with the design François Cevert used to have when he raced in Formula 1. I did manage to paint it white, but time has been lacking, especially with the amount of touring we’ve been doing lately, so it’s nowhere near finished yet. But, I will definitely finish it and I’ll put it up in my living room. It’ll look great, you’ll see.”

His tone is soft, almost sheepish in its reverence and telling of a side of Jean-Éric often unseen; Dan has to admit he finds it endearing enough that it tugs at his heartstrings, but he has to make a remark about the whole thing or his name isn’t Daniel Ricciardo.

“Cevert, huh? I always thought you were more of a James Hunt.”

“I might be, in some _aspects_ ,” Jean-Éric grins and cocks his eyebrow in a suggestive manner that Dan can’t help but notice, snapping back to his usual disposition, “and while he is indeed one of my favorite drivers, that doesn’t mean I can’t admire other drivers too. Anyways, that’s not the point, we’re getting derailed here and our set is in half an hour. Isn’t there something you should be asking now?”

Dan rolls his eyes and matches a pout to his quickly changing expression.

“Can I borrow your helmet?”

“Nope,” Jean-Éric replies, snatching it away from Dan’s hands, “you can’t.”

Not that denying Dan the helmet actually works, because by the time they are to set foot on stage he is wearing the damn helmet and sure enough the white overalls are there to match, but hey, he can’t say he didn’t try.

 

_3._

Jean-Éric and Dan return briefly to Australia, for the astounding period of one month and one month only, to record another 7’’ single before heading out to another spell of touring. Given that the songs they have to record have already been tried and tested on their willing audiences and they aren’t planning to tinker with them any further, it shouldn’t take too long, and Jean-Éric is feeling quite positive about the whole thing despite the fact that at this moment, he is barely able to muster the strength to keep his eyes open.

“Recording starts in two days,” Brendon reminds him when he drops Jean-Éric at the doorstep of the building his apartment is in, a backpack hanging from one shoulder, the guitar case from the other, and the remaining luggage precariously balancing on the front stairs, “Sleep a bit, get some rest, eat your greens, you know the works. We’ll see you at the studio. Don’t be late!”

Jean-Éric nods hazily, jet lag still getting the best and worst of him.

“I won’t, but you might want to drop Dan at the studio now so he won’t.”

Brendon laughs and bids Jean-Éric farewell with a firm squeeze to the arm. Dan, on the passenger seat, doesn’t hear the barb and enthusiastically waves goodbye to Jean-Éric as the car pulls away, leaning out of the open window to shout something at Jean-Éric involving long flights and his excellent predisposition for them seeing as he’s been barely affected by it and Jean-Éric looks like, and he’s gonna be _kind_ about it, death warmed over.

Jean-Éric doesn’t mind the noise, in all the forms it presents itself to him day after day; as a matter of fact he loves it, it’s part and parcel of the career he has chosen for a living, but he finds the silence that falls once the car has disappeared from view, trails after him as he crosses the main hall and leads the way into his apartment to be just what he needs.

He falls face first onto his bed and sleeps for what feels like an eternity.

Turns out eternity only lasts until later that night, which happens to be when he wakes up and hears the sounds of something very similar to snickering in the corner of his apartment that he fashioned into a tiny living room.

Clearly, he must be dreaming.

The sounds, however, don’t stop.

Clearly, he isn’t.

Jean-Éric gets up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and yawning loud and carelessly; in the very least, the headache that was plaguing him during the final hours of the flight seems to have vanished at once. The apartment is shrouded in darkness and a cool breeze filters through a window he didn’t remember having opened upon his arrival as he stretches and gets up, the bones in his legs creaking in a way that makes him feel old. The muffled sounds continue, mingled now with intermittent whispering as he listens on carefully and approaches the half-open door in soft steps.

He dodges his forgotten luggage on his way out and pokes a head around the wooden frame. It might be dark but he can still glimpse two crouching figures, one by the entrance door, the other closer to where he is standing; the two armchairs and the center table he has seem to have been pushed back, and the nearest figure starts to move, making a rolling motion with its hands as it lumbers forward. He keeps blinking both to adjust his sight and to try to figure out what exactly is going on; he’s not any less confused now than he was the moment he got up, but upon closer inspection the pale blonde hair on the farthest figure is a dead giveaway as to _who_ is involved and one clue closer to solving the riddle that is currently unfolding in front of him.

He moves swiftly to the other side of the wall, where there’s a light switch; he’s quick enough to not make any noise that could be mistaken for their own, to clear his throat the loudest he can and to flip it up with a flick of the wrist all in the space of a second.

The scene Jean-Éric is met with once the light is on involves, for a lack of a better description, a squatting Brendon allegedly on lookout while an equally squatting Dan is rolling the ancient center rug Jean-Éric had brought from France three years before as if that was the most natural thing for a person to be doing in the middle of the night on somebody else’s living quarters. Brendon flops down laughing when the light goes on, unable to even pretend they were caught in the headlights and Dan gives him a dirty look before glancing over his shoulder to find Jean-Éric.

“Oh, hi, JEV.”

It’s the fact that Dan is so casual in the face of danger that causes Brendon to laugh even harder and Jean-Éric to get even more cross at the whole ordeal.

“Mate, I _told_ you he was going to wake up.”

“Do I even want to know what’s going on?” Jean-Éric asks, exasperated.

“We were taking your rug because, um,” Dan says, shifting around to sit on the half-rolled rug and face Jean-Éric, “because there has been a wave of rug thefts around the neighborhood and we were going to make sure yours wasn’t stolen too by hiding it somewhere else.”

“ _What?_ ”

That one is, without a shadow of doubt, going to the private ranking Jean-Éric keeps of the most nonsense excuses ever given by Dan, and it’s a definite Top Ten contender at that.

“It’s totally true, we heard it on the radio after we dropped you here.”

Brendon rolls his eyes in the background and throws his hands in the air in an overly dramatic manner that is sarcastic in essence; when Jean-Éric meets his gaze, he simply shakes his head as if to say that yeah, that’s the awful truth, there’s no hope left for Dan anymore.

“Dan wants to take your rug to the studio when recording starts,” he offers helpfully, “to set up his drum kit. He has no spares at his place and wanted to borrow yours.”

Huh.

Now, that’s something Jean-Éric is actually okay with, except:

“I just gotta ask, couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow morning? Or until recording day?”

Brendon does not really have an answer for that.

“Ah JEV, you know the man, it’s like he has ants in his pants. Can’t stand still, needs to get the thing done in the next ten minutes or the world will end, that sort of thing-”

“We didn’t mean to wake you up, I swear. Disturbing your sleep was never part of the plan.” Dan chimes up, his tone genuinely apologetic. “It was supposed to be quick. We were just going to take it and leave and tell you about it tomorrow when we met for lunch. You wouldn’t even have noticed it was gone until we told you about it.”

Dan does have a point in that he probably wouldn’t have noticed, but still.

“I don’t mind that you want to use the rug, it’s a totally legitimate use for it, but despite what you might think,” Jean-Éric starts, crouching down to sit by Dan’s side, “my apartment is not some storage you waltz in and take things from at will. I’m not angry at you, but-”

“You’re disappointed.”

Jean-Éric sighs.

“Yeah. To be honest, I am. This is not the first time this has happened, and I hate that I have to behave like your dad and chew you out when it does. I’m your bandmate, but first and foremost I’m your friend. I’ve known you for a while now, and I know you’re not afraid of things, so just ask, you don’t have to make up ridiculous excuses. ”

“I’m sorry.”

Dan is sincere in his guilt, his eyes not meeting Jean-Éric’s, and his heart sinks a little.

“Don’t give me that face, come on, Dan. If I chew you out, it’s only because I want your best.” He reels Dan in closer with an arm, foreheads almost touching, and it’s enough for Dan to give him the shadow of a smile in return when Jean-Éric tugs at his shoulders and grasps at the sides of his face. “I think we should go and-”

“Have makeup sex,” Brendon interrupts, grinning like a cat. “Because _seriously_.”

The retort comes in the form of a misaimed sofa cushion Brendon easily avoids, although the chase around the room that comes after he starts making kissing noises is definitely less so.

 

_4._

They’re snowed in Helsinki, with nowhere to go other than the vicinity of the hotel they’re staying in; since the aforementioned hotel is in a main avenue of the city, there’s plenty to see and go, but since the snow has been falling relentlessly since the moment they set foot in the airport the day before, they can’t quite go anywhere. Dan’s itching to do something -- _anything, JEV, you don’t get it, I’m tired of playing Need for Speed on my mobile for the past two and a half hours_ , and Jean-Éric just nods because he understands, the rush of the stage is the sort of thing that affects the body and the mind if you miss out on it for too long -- and Brendon sends the two of them to the game room on the ground floor while he speaks to their Finnish promoter about their gig the next day.

“I hate the cold.” Dan mutters, unusually moody, and Jean-Éric casts him an aside glance.

He’s dressed in a simple long-sleeved shirt, jeans and Converses, and while there’s internal heating wherever they go because they’re in Finland and it’s winter, he’s still shuddering ever so slightly; to Jean-Éric it’s almost like no matter the amount of warmth there is surrounding Dan, the fact that it’s cold outside still affects him on a most basic level.

“You’d like it better if you dressed properly to withstand it.”

“Nah, trust me, I’d find ways to hate it still.”

“I still don’t get why,” Jean-Éric says as they climb into the lift, “you didn’t bring heavier clothes to the trip. At least a hoodie or two, for times like this. You knew this was going to be a long leg of the tour, you knew we’d be up here in winter-”

“No need to get your lecturing chops on, mate,” Dan cuts in somewhat forcefully, and Jean-Éric frowns, suddenly feeling a chill that, despite and definitely not being due to the raging snowstorm, is not too different from the one Dan’s been complaining about.

“I wasn’t lecturing you at all, Dan.”

He’s not quite sure why, but he feels the need to clarify that, to make sure Dan understands he was far from that, and hopes it doesn’t come off as condescending instead. Luckily for him, it’s not the case as the doors slide open and Dan smiles.

“They take up a lot of space and I didn’t want to carry too much luggage, so I didn’t bring any. And, we’re at the tail end of the tour, I kinda hoped the weather would hold out.”

“They _did_ forecast snow and lower temperatures this week.”

“Yeah, well, I was never one to believe in the weather forecast.”

“Until the day you freeze to death, that is.”

“Empty threats, that’s all,” Dan grins toothily as they enter the room, making a motion with the head towards the table just off their right. “Pool?”

Jean-Éric shrugs noncommittally and starts hoarding the balls onto its center; leaning on the wall while he waits with arms crossed, Dan is still clattering his teeth, and his bandmate is starting to actually feel bad about his predicament. He has to admit it’s really cold, but he’s got a sweater and two shirts on underneath the black hoodie he’s wearing, and either way he’s more used to that sort of weather than Dan is, despite having lived in Australia for a couple of years now. An idea presents itself and Jean-Éric mentally nods, because he knows that Dan will be at least a little mellower about the nights to come if he follows through with it.

Well, if not mellower, he’ll certainly be warmer.

“Here,” he says, unzipping the hoodie in one fluid motion, “take it.”

Dan gives him a confused look, reaching out for it but drawing his arm back.

“It’s your own hoodie,” he says, mystified. “Won’t you be cold?”

“Like I said, I’m _properly dressed_ for the cold so no, I won’t,” Jean-Éric starts in all seriousness, but soon loosens up again and smiles gently, gesturing with the hand holding the hoodie for Dan to take it already. “I got another one in my suitcase, don’t worry. You need it more than I do.”

Jean-Éric is puzzled that _Dan_ is puzzled at his offering, oddly afraid he has overstepped some line he didn’t even know to exist until now; Dan has always been one to take his things without asking first, or only asking later, or only asking when he’s returning them back, but now that Jean-Éric is offering something he needs without any qualms he is unwilling to accept it? It all lasts for one brief moment of tension before Dan grabs it and is quick to slide it over his shoulders and arms, letting out a brief, pleased whistle when he zips it up.

“Nice coat, real warm,” Dan approves, head nodding as he opens his arms to examine it.

“It’s because I’m hot,” Jean-Éric could go for sarcasm or ribbing but chooses self-flattery and a bad pun instead, wiggling an eyebrow as he leans by Dan’s side shoulder first, hips sticking out.

“No, you’re not,” Dan shoots back easily, flashing a grin as he reaches out for two cues from the support hanging on the wall behind them, “you’re the opposite of hotness.”

“There are a lot of people that would beg to differ,” he continues, grinning back, “but that’s a matter for another time and place, my friend. Let’s play.”

They play two or three rounds and Jean-Éric wins all of them, although not without some effort. Dan complains that he is rusty, that he hasn’t played in ages and that his aim’s not quite the same, but that’s the usual Ricciardo maneuver of putting himself down when his skills say otherwise and Jean-Éric pays no attention to it. He’s still a worthy opponent for the duration of the play; Jean-Éric cuts him no slack, however, and earns each win.

“JEV,” Dan begins after so long, and just by his tone Jean-Éric already knows what’s coming next. “I’ve had enough of playing pool, let’s do something else.”

But the truth is that he’s bored too, and puts up no protest against ending the contest.

“Maybe we should have a snow fight outside, then,” He suggests half-seriously, and only so because he knows the exact kind of reaction he will get from Dan.

“Wow, no. No, no, _nope_. Let’s _not_.” Dan shakes his head. “That is a terrible idea.”

“You’re really unlike yourself today, Dan.” Jean-Éric tries one last time while they head back to their room. “No giggling, no playing around, no desire for adventuring outside.”

“It’s the cold, it brings me down.” He says, hands stuck inside Jean-Éric’s hoodie, and leaves it at there, unwilling to start recounting his reasons for hating the cold. He’s more focused on the jacket now, truth be told. It’s ridiculously comfortable, and he’s a lot warmer now than before, although not enough to go outside; he might even go so far as to bug his bandmate later about where he bought it to get a similar one, for whenever they do tour into the colder corners of the world. It’s good to be prepared, he figures.

Or, because he is not one to throw in the towel and admit he is wrong, he will just conveniently forget to return it once they come back to Australia.

Yeah, that works too.

Dan keeps the hoodie on for the remainder of the night, wrapping himself in all the covers he can get his hands on while Brendon is disbelieving someone can be _that_ cold despite the unforgiving conditions outside and Jean-Éric just wants to go to bed after having a hearty dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, seemingly having given up on coherent interaction. He covers his head, makes a sort of cocoon of sheets and blankets and keeps quiet when the lights go out, which is unusual in that the three of them often still find something to briefly chat about before sleeping. Not tonight, however, because this night seems to be all about unusualness; soon, everyone’s breathing is easing off.

Everyone’s except his own.

His thoughts gravitate back to the hoodie.

It might be that he’s too tired, it might be that his mind is a bit impaired after the three bottles of wine they’ve had over dinner, or it might be because it involves the sort of feeling he wouldn’t be caught dead admitting to having towards his bandmate, but he blinks once or twice, slowly, captured by its warmth.

Maybe being hugged by Jean-Éric in the _right_ way feels a little like that, he thinks.

And that, in and by itself, turns out to be a comfort he was not expecting to experience. It’s not just the comfort that comes at a physical level and the fact that at least he won’t be freezing to death any time soon but it’s much more than that; it’s what the gesture itself entails. It’s the hoodie itself being handed over, it’s the certainty that wherever he goes and whenever he needs it, Jean-Éric comes to the rescue.

He can count on Jean-Éric time and time again, and, in all honesty, that touches him deeply.

It _is_ a hug, ultimately. A metaphorical hug of sorts, but a hug nonetheless.

He moves his left arm so that his hand rests on the pillow and the wrist of the hoodie is directly across his face; he shuts his eyes and buries his nose in it, and his thoughts still meander and curl around his bandmate as he dives into unconsciousness. His last thought for the day, the thought that keeps him anchored to Jean-Éric even after he fully slips into sleep, is that he can detect the faintest trace of his perfume on it.

Jean-Éric wakes up in the middle of the night thirsty for water, and goes to the minibar for a bottle; across the room, Dan whimpers in his sleep, the sort of soft whimper that comes from the back of the throat and hints at all sorts of unrealized ideas and trouble. He peers at the asleep figure, notices he doesn’t seem to be overly fazed by whatever it is that he’s dreaming, decides there’s nothing there to be worried about, and heads back to his own bed.

The next morning, when Jean-Éric asks about it because he _must_ , Dan blushes and devours his breakfast in record time to keep his mouth busy enough to avoid saying anything, and not even Brendon’s playful poking and prodding is able to get a single word out of him.

 

_5._

“I got it,” Brendon skids over to the spot where Jean-Éric has been wheeling boxes into the back of the van by himself, his sneakers screeching on the dirty venue floor and scraping on the beaten down tarmac of the back alley. “I got it!”

Jean-Éric sighs the sigh of the long-suffering and braces himself.

“Alright, let’s hear it. What’s your theory now?”

“Okay, here it goes. I don’t think you’re jealous of Cass getting into a new relationship so quickly, I don’t think you ever were,” Brendon says, as triumphantly as his laid-back demeanor allows him to, as if he had at last figured the puzzle he had been entertaining himself with for a fortnight. “You’re actually jealous that said relationship is with _Dan_. You’re jealous that she is stealing the time _you_ used to spend with him.”

Jean-Éric gives him an incredulous look.

“That’s not true.”

Except that Brendon has no idea he has hit the bull’s-eye this time.

Okay, fine, it’s not that he’s jealous, he really isn’t, it’s not that strong of a feeling and he wouldn’t quite phrase it that way or use that specific word to describe it. What’s troubling him this time is that Dan’s got a new girlfriend, an old acquaintance of theirs harkening all the way back to their UWA days by the name of Cass, who happened to date Jean-Éric briefly before breaking up and moving on surprisingly fast into a relationship with his bandmate two days later. What is _actually_ getting to him is not the fact that she was the one who broke up with him, nor it is that she chose to be with Dan instead; it’s not even the fact he has a vague suspicion, thus far unproven and likely to be untrue as well, that Dan whisked her away while they still were together.

It’s none of that.

“Yes it is, you know it is.” Brendon scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest. “And don’t even try to give me that poker face of yours, that’s a trick we all are too used to already.”

“I am not jealous of either one of them,” Jean-Éric insists, “I swear.”

“You’d be embarrassed if you saw the face you make every time he brings her to a gig.”

Jean-Éric harrumphs something in French and glares at Brandon, to no avail, because apparently not even his ability to shut up people with his eyes seems to be working as of late.

“I just think this isn’t the right moment for girlfriends.” Jean-Éric states, his expression now far more neutral. “We have one record and three EPs under our belt, one of which has just been released. We’re heading for another tour abroad in a few days, our name is becoming more and more known, our music is getting out and about by the hour. He should be focused on the two of us. That’s all that there is to it.”

Brendon has been playing that game for the past two weeks, ever since Dan actually brought Cass herself, in flesh and blood and long legs, over for a rehearsal. It wasn’t too difficult to notice that Jean-Éric seemed particularly focused on his guitar for the remainder of the afternoon, in special whenever Dan quipped something and the soft drawl of her laughter echoed off the walls of the tiny room or whenever she had something to contribute and Dan would not only intently listen but also reply with terms of endearment that would make anyone melt.

There is an upside for all parties involved, however, and it is the fact that Brendon is always up to getting to the bottom of a quandary. That’s part of the job description, after all, it's what he does best, he helps out and solves problems and he’ll defuse this situation even if that’s the last thing he does. The yellow pad he carries around in his backpack quickly starts to receive all sorts of notes and diagrams on “the great Barbagallo mess-up”, much to Jean-Éric’ contempt and Dan’s bemusement, and every couple of nights the blonde comes over after mulling it over to expose a new theory to Jean-Éric.

“What’s with the slip now?” Brendon raises an eyebrow, lips quirking into a shrewd smile.

“Slip, what slip?”

“You just said, and I quote, ‘he should be focused on _the two of us_.’”

“‘The two of us’ in the sense of _us-as-Barbagallo_ , not us-as-whatever-you’re-getting-at.”

“Sure, sure.” Brendon assures with a pat on his shoulder, but what he really means is that he should have watched his mouth because this is totally going in the pad as incriminatory evidence as soon as he gets his hands on it.

“Really, I can’t understand for the life of me-” Jean-Éric starts, growing tired of having that conversation for what feels like the umpteenth time, but then the backstage door flies open and out come the lovebirds, giggling as if there was no tomorrow, and he quiets down immediately while they stop to chat with a bunch of fans hanging about.

“The face,” Brendon leans in closer, sounding delightfully helpful, “you’re making it again.”

Jean-Éric rolls his eyes.

“Oh, great, just fetch me a mirror or whatever so I can see whatever the fuck it looks like.”

“You needn’t worry, JEV,” he continues calmly, the certain tone of someone who has seen that scenario played out many times before while Jean-Éric watches them on with wide eyes and creases all over his brow. “It won’t last long. Don’t lose sleep over it.”

Cass still has that scorching smile Australian people seem to excel at and her hair’s still flowing in jet black waves to her shoulder, but he’s actually focused on the way Dan’s got a hand on his pocket and her arm is linked to his, her fingers curled gently around his bare upper arm in such a way that is not possessive, let alone meaning to mark her territory. It just… makes perfect sense inside that context. It’s simple, almost careless at a first glance, but upon Jean-Éric’s wary inspection, he sees it for what it stands for, for how uncomplicated and natural it truly is. Dan turns and laughs at something she says, and she squeezes his arm lightly in reassurance while he retorts something about broken cymbals.

Watching that scene unfold only makes him swallow dry instead of bringing any relief.

“Come on,” Brendon nudges him, and only then Jean-Éric notices he’s pocketing his mobile back. “Kevin and Jay are inviting us for a drink or three at the Causeway. Let’s do it, let’s go.”

“I… I don’t think I want to.”

Brendon winces.

“You mean you’ll just spend the rest of your night pining forlornly on your own instead of having some fun?”

“I am _not_ -” Jean-Éric’s voice rises as he grabs Brendon’s arm; he’s quick to dial it down a few notches before the entire street -- Dan and Cass included -- comes over to stare. “I am not pining, let alone forlornly, after anyone! Stop saying that! I already gave my opinion, and that’s all it amounts to, an opinion. His focus should be somewhere else.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, his focus should be in _yourself_ ,” and then Brendon quickly pretends to be clearing his throat at the last word before Jean-Éric punches him in the eye or something, “ _Barbagallo _,__ I mean, yeah. Not in his girlfriend. Or any girlfriend. Or girls in general.”

Jean-Éric decides that he’s had enough for one evening and that it’s better for his sanity if he just goes along and forgets that Brendon expects that line of thought to be taken seriously.

“Fine, let’s, but only if you promise to put this subject to rest once and for all.”

“Okay, whatever, I won’t ever open my mouth again about any of this, I promise. I can’t guarantee I won’t be casting you knowing looks if the future proves me right, though.”

Jean-Éric shrugs, satisfied with that victory, however small it is.

“I can ignore those, I guess.” He pauses, unsure of himself for a moment, seemingly turning something over in his head. “Not that they’re actually going to happen, you know.”

“I wasn’t saying anything, mate. Subject’s dead and buried, remember?” Brendon grins, crossing his index fingers over his mouth. “Sounds awfully silent, I think they've gone back in. I’ll go check if they want a ride somewhere and spare you of a stroke in case they’re making out in a corner or something.”

“Brendon…”

There’s this vague hint of painful retribution that he usually reserves for Dan in his voice and the other man puts his hands up in a makeshift attempt to apologize.

“Sorry, JEV, sorry. Consider this comment a minor zombie outbreak that’s been swiftly dealt with.” He skips away from Jean-Éric’s reach with a spin of his torso and a flourish, just in case that punch to the eye is still coming his way. “Be right back!”

Either way, Jean-Éric might be tired of that subject but not enough to resort to violence.

He leans on the side of the van and sticks his hands in his pockets, feeling the cold touch of metal seeping through his flimsy t-shirt while he waits. It’s been a while, but he still can hear the sound of their laughter through the wall that separates his emotion from his reason, and he feels guilty that he is so annoyed with the whole ordeal. Nobody is at fault: the breakup had been friendly enough that he holds no ill towards Cass and their relationship was fated to end eventually, their differences too great for it to hold water for much longer. It’s not Cass’s fault either that she’s falling for Dan, which is completely understandable, and it’s not Dan’s fault that they’re happy together, happy in that way only he seems to be able to bring out in people.

He is happy for them, he really is, but at the same time, he is not.

The whole thing feels skewed, almost out of balance, and he can’t quite tell why.

He’s not allowed in Dan’s apartment any longer and the only time he gets to see Dan is whenever they’re rehearsing, and since they’re rehearsing they’re not really doing much in the way of talking at those times. They’re not discussing anything other than the tour and the new songs, and to Jean-Éric, that only makes everything worse. Everything’s turned upside down in ways he hadn’t been used to in a long time because Dan is not fully there for him, he’s not there in the way Jean-Éric wants him to, he’s not there anymore in the way he has always been. Suddenly, Dan has turned into a guy that just happens to be in a band with him and not the friend he had become in the intervening years. It might be selfish of him to think so, yes, but he is hurting nonetheless and that’s something he’s tried to change but has found himself unable to.

He does miss Dan being around but not in the sense Brendon believes him to.

He misses the familiarity Dan has always given him in all those years spent in Perth and on the road, on the studios and the stages, the constant presence and the usual reassurance, and, if he’s to be one hundred percent honest about it, he misses his warmth as well.

 _That’s_ what is getting to him, the bottom line, the final word on the subject.

Couldn’t Cass have picked an unknown instead of Dan?

It should not be that complicated of a matter for him to be fretting so much about it but he is, he can’t seem to stop and his frustration does not vanish with the sigh he lets out.

“Let’s hit the road, Jack.” Brendon startles him out of the murky depth of his thoughts, opening the door on the driver’s side. “They’re going somewhere else.”

“I figured,” He says simply, slamming the passenger’s door shut and putting the seat belt on, and decides that he too should put it to rest already.

So he does, to the best of his capacities.

Three days before they are to leave for the tour, however, Jean-Éric is already packing part of his gear because it is never too early to get started and never too late to leave something behind when his mobile rings.

“Shoot, Ricciardo.”

“Cass and I broke up.”

He did not expect Dan to be any less straightforward about it, but it still catches him off-guard.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, Dan. What happened?”

His mobile vibrates against his hand briefly, but he couldn’t care less, his attention is all set towards Dan and whatever he has to say now that it’s over.

“She said she’s going to miss me too much when we’re on the road so she thought it would be better if we broke up before I left. So we did. That’s it. Not a very long story, I’m afraid.”

“Is everything alright?” Jean-Éric asks, because that’s the third aspect of the past two minutes that surprises him, after the call and the news: Dan doesn’t seem wistful, or even upset, about breaking up. He is the one that gets misty-eyed over sad endings in films; he is the one that goes into an immediate state of stoic sorrow if something depressing happens to him or to those close to him. He is the emotional one, and yet here is a situation in which anyone -- outside of robots or psychopaths, for that matter -- would be emotional about, but _he_ isn't and and it's just _odd_. “You don’t sound terribly heartbroken over it.”  


“I’m okay. Cass is nice, we had a good time while it lasted but I understand her. And it’s not like we were planning marriage, or stocking up our glory box or anything. I’ll survive.”

“Well, you do have a point.” Jean-Éric pauses and ponders something before continuing. “I’m starting to pack up for the tour. Wanna come over? We can order Chinese and you can talk about it if you want to.”

“Jesus, JEV, just when I think you can’t get any squarer, you do. Packing up a full three days ahead of schedule.” Dan complains, and Jean-Éric can almost hear his eyes rolling in disgust. He makes no effort to stifle a laugh and Dan’s tone becomes even more peeved. “You’re ridiculous and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Any other time, Jean-Éric would have replied in kind, but not this time, nope.

“I don’t like to live dangerously, that’s all.” He grins. “You coming or not?”

“I _am_ , but just because someone needs to slap some sense into you and I’m always up for that task.” There is amusement in his voice, however, and Jean-Éric knows no slaps will be doled out, not in this moment or ever. “Chinese will be a bonus. Catch you soon.”

“Alright, alright. See ya.”

The mobile is already quite a way from his ear when he hears Dan calling out for him, the voice tinny and chirpy on the other side of the line.

" _JEVJEVJEVJEEEEV-_ "

“What?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it but I do need the company. So, um. Thanks.”

Dan sounds unusually self-conscious about it and while Jean-Éric is more than happy to help Dan in any way he can, he will be damned if he is not going to take the opportunity and milk it for all it’s worth.

“Don’t mention it, Dan. I’ll think of ways for you to make up for it when the time is right.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you will.” Dan says, and Jean-Éric’s pretty sure that put-upon tone of his must be the verbal equivalent of an aside glance. “ _Hasta pronto_ , mate.”

He ends the call and there is a message from Brendon waiting for him because _of course_ there would.

 

_I TOLD YOU SO_

_You just couldn’t wait for it, could you_

_Oh, boy_  
 _I’ve had that on Drafts since Causeway night_

_Anyways_  
 _Hadn’t we agreed about not bringing this up?_  
 _Like, ever again?_

_Anyways ANYWAYS,_  
 _You must be super glad that Dan’s all yours again_  
 _GO GET HIM TIGER_

 

And because that last message, complete with a tiger emoji, warrants the sort of reply that is rude in essence and he’s not in the mood for trifling that he should have seen coming a mile away, he simply counts to ten and puts the mobile aside.

He’s not jumping in ecstatic, unbridled joy as Brendon seems to expect him to be, but he has to admit it’s good to have Dan back by his side.

It’s the way it should be, the two of them working it out on the road, playing the music they make together, sharing the space they’ve created for themselves and themselves only. Not a lot of people realize or understand it, but they understand each other fine in the foundation of trust and confidence they’ve built over the years, and it’s all that matters. It’s something he only has with a number of people that can be counted on the fingers of one hand, and because it is so rare he treasures what he has with Dan all the more.

It’s the one thing he will never tire of, doing all of this with Dan.

Actually, scratch that, he won’t ever tire of Dan as a whole. He won’t tire of the stupid jokes and of the horrid ideas for costumes, he won’t tire of stolen rugs and misplaced toothbrushes, he won’t tire of his laughter and he won’t tire of his talent, nor he will tire of his enthusiasm and his determination to make life work in the way it does. He won’t really tire of anything that makes up the person Dan is and that became so valuable to him after a couple of years that he cannot live without any longer. Dan’s already too embedded, too stuck in his life to be removed from it, and somehow, Jean-Éric’s fine with that.

One hundred percent fine with it, yeah.

It’s only when the doorbell rings and it turns out he’s been repeating all of that in his head for the past fifteen minutes that the thread of thought comes apart somewhere down the line and realization hits him, another strike on the bull’s-eye that comes from his own hand this time.

_Oh, fuck._


End file.
